


The First Time

by QoS



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-07 22:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14091363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QoS/pseuds/QoS
Summary: Shortly after the Stunticons’ creation, Drag Strip believes he would be better off without the rest of the team. Motormaster alters that attitude.





	1. Chapter 1

Drag Strip had been online for only two weeks, but that was more than enough time for him to see that he was in the wrong team.

Though as far as he was concerned, he wasn’t cut out for teamwork. He hated being dragged down by the Stunticons. When they lost a battle, he knew it was due to their neuroses. When they won, it wasn’t much better. At best, the credit was split five ways; at worst, Megatron just commended Motormaster.

_As if I didn’t even exist._ Drag Strip was looking forward to the day when he would no longer have Motormaster’s fist constantly poised over his head. If he could just show Megatron how efficient and skilled he was – if he demonstrated how much he could accomplish without the Stunticons attached to him like lead weights – he would surely be allowed to operate on his own. Drag Strip savored the thought of that. Not just the autonomy but the recognition.

"I’m sorry, Drag Strip," Megatron would say. "I didn’t see just what an outstanding fighter you are."

"That’s all right," Drag Strip would reply magnanimously. "Even I found it difficult to be noticed with a gang of defectives continuously getting in my way."

Megatron would nod. "It is a sad fact that the stupidity of others so often obscures your kind of genuine ability. But you are so much more valuable to the Decepticon cause than the Stunticons. You are therefore released from their subfaction and are now an independent warrior in the Decepticon Army. One who I know will bring glory to--"

The radio pinged, cutting short Drag Strip’s fantasy. Annoyed, he checked the frequency. It was the Stunticon command channel. _Great._

“ _What?_ ” he said.

Motormaster’s voice always gave Drag Strip a sense of unfathomable depth, as though he was looking into dark water that went down and down, endlessly. “ _Report to my quarters_.”

“ _But I have a target practice scheduled_.” Part of Drag Strip’s plan to be noticed by Megatron was to hone his skills until they were sharp enough to cut steel.

“ _Now_ ,” Motormaster said, and cut the comm.

Drag Strip clenched his jaws. He dearly wanted to reopen the comm and tell Motormaster where to shove it, but he knew what would happen then. Two days – let alone weeks – had been enough for him to see that Motormaster could and would enforce commands with force, and Drag Strip didn’t enjoy being slapped around. Still, all that would change once Megatron released him from this bunch of malfunctioning idiots. He just had to put up with them until then.

He turned, transformed and zoomed along the corridors – slewing up the walls to avoid any ‘cons in the way – until he reached Motormaster’s room.

“I’m here,” he called out sullenly. He never knocked, because it tended to scuff the paint over the knuckles. Drag Strip liked his paintjob very much. Compared to Dead End’s subdued red, Wildrider’s dull grey, Motormaster’s black-and-purple – who did he think he was, Skywarp? – and Breakdown’s plain white-with-blue, his brilliant yellow looked like a flash of flame, a sunburst.

The door slid open. Drag Strip stepped inside and it shut behind him. His resentment faded temporarily as it occurred to him that he had never been in Motormaster’s quarters before, and he looked around. The room was large, and seemed oddly empty; there was nothing in it except for a recharge berth and a workstation that looked a bit smaller with Motormaster hunched over it. For that matter, Drag Strip didn’t have a lot of possessions either – he’d hardly had the time to accumulate anything – but his room looked neat and uncluttered. Motormaster’s was stark in its bareness.

Motormaster looked up from the datapad he was reading and half-turned around, his chair creaking. Drag Strip wondered if he would be asked to sit down – that would indicate he would be there for a while, which meant he would definitely miss his practice session. But the only other place to sit was the berth.

“So you scheduled a target practice session,” Motormaster said in a conversational way.

“Yeah.”

“With Scavenger.”

“Yeah.” Drag Strip had heard the Constructicon was good with a gun, and Scavenger was always accommodating.

“From now on, if you’re practicing anything, you do it with Breakdown or Dead End or Wildrider. They’re your teammates, not Scavenger.”

“But he’s better at target shooting than they are.”

“I don’t care.” Motormaster set the datapad down and stared at him. “Either you work with us, Drag Strip, or you don’t work at all. You’ll be going into battle with us, not with the Constructicons. They have that much sense.”

Drag Strip was nettled. _Going into battle with you… well, not for much longer._ “This is my off-duty time. You can’t micromanage that!”

“I just did.” Motormaster spoke as indifferently as if he had been reading Decepticon history off the datapad, his voice flat and dismissive. “I’ve commed Scrapper, and he’s agreed that none of his crew will practice with you. The training rooms have also been programmed so that you can only enter if another Stunticon is with you.”

“What?” Drag Strip nearly said, _You can’t do that!_ before it occurred to him that Motormaster had indeed done that. What else had he told the Constructicons? Had he made Drag Strip out to be some kind of pariah who couldn't be allowed to interact with anyone? He had never felt so embarrassed before, and swift on the wheels of that came fury.

Then he took in Motormaster’s greater height and weight with a single look and knew he wouldn’t get away with starting a fight. His speed would only buy him a little more time before the inevitable end. No, the best thing to do was to put up with the latest injustice and work even harder at improving himself so he could leave the Stunticons behind for good. He was already better than the rest of them, so it wouldn’t be too difficult.

The knowledge helped calm him, and he looked up to meet Motormaster’s gaze. Cold purple optics were studying him with a look Drag Strip couldn’t decipher, but he guessed Motormaster had been poised for defiance, eager for an excuse to hit him. _Well, sorry to disappoint you._

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll practice with them from now on.” He turned to leave.

“I haven’t dismissed you.”

Drag Strip turned back. He was starting to seethe now, but he controlled that; apparently Motormaster hadn’t finished playing this stupid little game. _Fine._ He waited.

Motormaster leaned back in his chair, arms along its armrests, legs stretched out before him. “What’re you planning to do?” he said casually.

“What do you mean?” Drag Strip felt suddenly uneasy. His whole plan depended on Megatron realizing how good he was before Motormaster ever knew such a plan existed, because Motormaster would definitely not approve of him wanting to leave the Stunticons.

_Just because he’s jealous of me. Just because he knows I’m better._ But that felt more like a program he was trying to install in himself with rather than something he didn’t need to say because he knew it deep down, because it was knowledge he had been created with.

Motormaster brought his hands together and began to crack his knuckles. “You were torqued off just now, but you calmed down. That means something’s going on in your pathetic little processors. What is it?"

Drag Strip stared at him. “How… how could you tell?” he heard himself say, even though he knew he was admitting Motormaster was right. They could hear each other’s thoughts when they merged, but they sure as slag weren’t merged now. Had Vector Sigma created Motormaster with telepathy or something?

“Gestalt link. Comes in handy sometimes.”

_Oh, that,_ Drag Strip thought in relief. He’d overheard Breakdown and Dead End talking about it, but it was mostly useless. Not empathic in nature, thank Primus – he couldn’t imagine anything more incapacitating during a battle than to feel Breakdown’s paranoia or Dead End’s depression dragging him down. Just more of an… emotional awareness _(soppy slag_ , he thought) that went deeper than surface level. Being instantly aware if one of them was ever deactivated, for all the good that did.

What was unnerving was Scavenger’s claim that gestalt bonds were a dynamic rather than static connection. Which meant that the different components of that gestalt might eventually share certain characteristics. Spillover, Scavenger had called it. A nightmare, Drag Strip had called it. The prospect of having parts of his mind slowly turn crazy or fatalistic would have been enough to make him join the Combaticons if they wanted him (which they didn’t).

It hadn’t occurred to him that Motormaster would be able to tap into that to guess what he felt. Motormaster had certainly never done that before. Maybe he was only able to do it now because Drag Strip was in the same room, or because he was so angry. But either way, that was all Motormaster could feel. He didn't know what Drag Strip had in mind.

“So I calmed down,” he said. “So what?”

Motormaster stopped cracking his knuckles – _thank Primus, that was annoying_ – and tapped his fingers lightly along one armrest. “Whatever you’re thinking, Drag Strip… if you’re capable of thinking… forget it. I didn’t ask to be given you lot as my subordinates. But now that I have you, I’ll make sure we live up to Megatron’s expectations if I have to beat the slag out of you to do it.”

_In other words, you’ll keep Megatron happy by using me_. Drag Strip was fuming now, his temper straining at the shreds of his self-restraint and caution. _And that’s your only way to handle a problem, beat it like an Aerialbot. No wonder you can’t satisfy Megatron without me._

“I could live up to Megatron’s expectations by myself,” he said. “If I didn’t have the lot of you dragging me down.”

“Dragging you down?” Motormaster raised an optic ridge, but his voice was calm and his relaxed posture never changed. “Your teammates might be fragged in the head, but at least they don’t go around thinking they’re better than you.”

“Because they’re not.” Drag Strip would never have spoken so freely under other circumstances, but Motormaster didn’t seem angry and he had been pushed too far. “What the frag have they got? Wildrider’s crazy, and he’ll only get crazier if it’s quiet. Dead End’s pretty and pompous and that’s all there is to him. He’s so busy moaning about how we’re all going to die that he won’t even fight unless you kick his aft into gear. And Breakdown… if a squishy stares in his direction, he’ll leave skid marks. Good luck getting anywhere with them, but I won’t waste my time trying.”

There was a long pause before Motormaster replied. “So that’s how you see the team,” he said, as quietly as if he was thinking to himself.

“That’s how they _are_.”

“And what about you? What have you got?”

That wasn’t a question Drag Strip had expected, but he wouldn’t let it faze him. “I’m the fastest,” he said. “I have the best reflexes. I’m a good fighter. And I’m not crazy or afraid of anything or a neurotic mess.”

Motormaster heaved himself to his feet. “We’ll see about that.”

A small cold shiver ran down Drag Strip’s back strut. He’d known Motormaster was vicious when it came to discipline – he’d learned that from a punch or two – but until then he hadn’t been afraid that Motormaster would do more to him. The words _if I have to beat the slag out of you to do it_ were suddenly not an idle threat.

“What are you talking about?” he said, trying to speak calmly.

“I think it’s time to find out just what you’ve got.”

“If you want a session in the training room--”

“No, a session here will do just fine.”

Drag Strip would take on nearly anyone without qualms, but fighting Motormaster was another thing entirely. The room wasn’t large enough for him to bring his speed into play, and all he could do would be dodge until Motormaster eventually caught him. And he’d done nothing to be beaten up for – not yet, anyway! Surely Motormaster wasn’t going to slag him for telling the truth about the Stunticons?

Without taking his optics off Motormaster, he reached behind him for the door. Instead of a beep to signal that it was active, he heard a soft buzz instead. _Locked._

“Let me out,” he said.

Motormaster took a pace towards him. “Get on the berth.”

“What?” Confused now as well as afraid, Drag Strip backed up when Motormaster took another step forward. His spoiler pressed against the door, which felt cool and unyielding. There was nowhere to retreat.

“You heard me.”

_The frag is he trying to do?_ And then suddenly he knew. He’d heard crude jokes from other ‘cons about interfacing, but it had always seemed like some bizarre foreign activity that other mechs did. Even when he overheard noises from behind the doors of Dead End’s or Wildrider’s rooms, he’d been indifferent at best and faintly repelled at worst. Drag Strip had no interest in being touched by anyone unless they were giving him medical attention or polishing his plating, so getting intimate with Motormaster was out of the question.

“No way,” he said.

Motormaster grinned, and with a sinking feeling, Drag Strip realized his expression of uncertainty giving way to disgust had been noticed. “You’ve never done it before, have you?” he said. “I should’ve guessed. You’ve been driving around with your head in the air, thinking your exhaust is energon fumes. No wonder your teammates haven’t wanted to hit the berth with you.”

“ _I_ haven’t wanted to hit the berth with _them_!” Drag Strip snapped. “And that’s right, I haven’t done it before because I don’t want to. I’ve got better things to do with my time. So can I go now?”

Motormaster’s grin faded. Instead he just looked at Drag Strip, his gaze moving slowly down and then up again, intense and invasive. Drag Strip had never had anyone stare at him like that, and he nearly cringed back against the door.

_Stop it! You’re not Breakdown,_ he thought angrily. That helped him to stay standing and straight.

“Get on the berth.” Motormaster’s voice was quiet, and his face utterly without expression. He took another deliberate step forward.

Drag Strip couldn’t move. He didn’t know what was going to happen next – what interfacing involved besides touching and loud incoherent noises – but he knew that if Motormaster was using it as a punishment, it was going to be worse than just a beating. And would he be the one the other ‘cons made jokes about afterwards, if they ever found out? Every self-preservation instinct he had screamed at him not to let that happen.

Without thinking, he drew his gun.


	2. Chapter 2

Under any other circumstances Drag Strip might have fired; his reflexes were better than any Stunticon’s. But Motormaster was too close by then. He lashed one arm out as the gun appeared from subspace, a hard unstoppable swing that brought the edge of his hand smashing into Drag Strip’s forearm.

Drag Strip’s forcefield was active, but that made little difference to a blow that had Motormaster’s brutal strength behind it. His arm jolted to one side, fingers spasming open reflexively, and his gun flew across the room. He made a dive for it.

Motormaster grabbed his other wrist, twisting it behind his spoiler and jerking him back with a hand on his shoulder. Then, abruptly, he let go and flung Drag Strip against the door. Drag Strip brought his hands up to take the impact, landed on his knees and scrambled up. He turned to find himself looking down the barrel of Motormaster’s rifle.

“You got any other weapons you want to pull?” Motormaster said.

Drag Strip managed to shake his head.

“Good. Power down your forcefield.”

Drag Strip wanted to refuse, even though he could barely shake his head with the rifle jammed against his face. His forcefield protected him from attacks; it couldn’t absorb every bit of kinetic energy directed at him, but at least it wouldn’t let him be touched. He tried to imagine switching that off, being completely defenseless, feeling Motormaster’s hands on his plating, as opposed to having a thin but unbreakable shield of energy between them.

Motormaster’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Now.”

_Will he kill me if I say no?_ In that moment, Drag Strip didn’t think he would mind dying. But their weapons had different settings. Motormaster’s gun might only shred the outer layers of his armor and circuitry, ripping his face off but leaving him active… and after the Constructicons repaired him, this would all happen all over again.

With an effort, he deactivated his forcefield. There was a soft _clink_ as the barrel of the rifle touched his cheek. In all his life - albeit a short one - he had never felt so vulnerable.

“Keep it down ‘til we’re done.” Motormaster’s voice had thickened; the difference was subtle, but Drag Strip’s senses felt as though they were hypersensitive, honed to detect any nuance, and he noticed it. “Or I’ll blast a hole through your chassis. There’s no room for insubordination in my team.” He lowered the rifle, then subspaced it. “Now, for the last time, get on the berth.”

_Get on the berth. Get on the berth. Get on your own fragging berth, I don’t want to do this!_ Drag Strip wanted to shout that, but he clamped his jaws down on the cry and tried to think of a way to get out of there. The fact that a rifle was no longer jammed in his face helped a little. _If I can stall him long enough, maybe he’ll have to go on duty--_

A large hand closed tightly around his upper arm and Motormaster began to drag him towards the berth. Drag Strip struggled and kicked, but he might as well have lashed his feet against concrete pillars.

“Frag you!” He clawed at Motormaster’s fingers with his free hand, but that made no difference either.

Motormaster laughed. “Oh, you will.” He grabbed Drag Strip’s other arm, and the servos in his own arms whined softly as they took all of Drag Strip’s weight with no other evidence of effort.

Drag Strip felt his feet leave the floor and he knew that in the next moment he would be on the berth. He had no leverage and kicking Motormaster had no effect. But the movement had brought their faces closer together. Reflexively, he tried to headbutt Motormaster.

That would have worked with any other Stunticon. With Motormaster, it was the worst possible thing he could have done. His forehead smashed into the cowling that surrounded Motormaster’s head, and his vision turned white. He thought he was falling, and realized he had when he dropped on to the metallic surface of the berth, his limbs going slack. There was a low chuckle nearby, but he couldn’t react, and his entire head felt numb from the blow.

Then Motormaster turned his unresisting body over and climbed on to the berth.

Consciousness returned in a hot raw rush. Drag Strip ignored the throbbing ache in his forehead – _Primus, that’s dented_ – and tried to shift away. A heavy leg immediately dropped down over the backs of his knees, pinning him in place, and Motormaster grabbed his wrists, pulling his arms over his head. He took both wrists in one of his hands, gripping tightly.

Motormaster’s frame pressed against the length of his and the unwanted contact filled Drag Strip with revulsion. He was also fighting to control his panic. Was this how interfacing was done? Face down, so you couldn't even see what was happening to you?

He turned his face to one side; at least he had that much freedom of movement. With his cheek to the surface of the berth, he could see the door only eighty feet away. It might as well have been eighty thousand. If only he could get away--

Motormaster’s free hand closed around the back of his neck. Drag Strip tensed, only realizing he wasn’t about to be strangled when Motormaster relaxed his grip and drew a finger down his back strut to his spoiler. Then his palm pressed down flat on the spoiler, flat and firm, and stroked along its length.

Drag Strip hadn’t even realized that his spoiler was so sensitive to touch. A strange heat kindled in his circuits, but the flush of embarassment was hotter.

“This is a waste of time,” he managed to say. Scared though he was, he had to fight back somehow; he couldn’t just lie there and allow himself to be… manipulated. “You’re not going to make me into an obedient little drone, no matter what you do.”

It was as if he hadn’t even spoken. The rhythmic caresses continued. Drag Strip heard the soft slide of metal on metal, and a whirr as his internal cooling fans started up. _I have to stop this!_

“Bet you’ve forced the rest of your team already, huh?” he said. “I guess there’s no one who’ll get into your berth willingly?”

It was as if he had flipped a switch. Motormaster grabbed the far side of his spoiler at the base, and twisted.

Drag Strip gasped. The movement had been quick and rough and with his face half buried in the berth he hadn’t seen it coming. A stab of pain drove through his back. He struggled wildly, trying to pull his hands free, and the grip on his wrists became crushing.

“There are a few things you’re going to have to learn, Drag Strip,” Motormaster said calmly, twisting harder. Drag Strip was sure his spoiler was going to be ripped off his frame at any moment. “The first is that you’re a member of this team, whether you like it or not. You’ll be one until the day you die.”

He leaned closer. “And if I have anything to do with it, that day will be a long time coming.”

He dug his fingers into Drag Strip’s pinned wrists as if trying to jab through the plating. Drag Strip bit back a cry as the circuits in his wrists fritzed and his fingers jerked helplessly. “The second thing you need to learn is how to speak to your commanding officer. Mouth off to me again and you’ll be put in your place so fast it'll break the sound barrier. Understand?”

“Y-yes. Let go of me!”

Motormaster released his spoiler – and immediately transferred his grip to the other end of the spoiler, wrenching it viciously. A rivet popped loose, and metal screamed as it tore free. Drag Strip screamed as well.

“Please!” he gasped, when he could speak again. “Please, Motormaster, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, please--”

Motormaster’s fingers loosened fractionally, no longer digging into his pinned wrists, and the agonizing vise on his spoiler opened. Drag Strip pressed his face into the berth and shuddered, air heaving through his intakes.

“The third thing,” Motormaster said, taking his hand off Drag Strip’s battered spoiler and touching his hip instead, “is that if you do as you’re told, things’ll go a lot easier for you.” He stroked the length of Drag Strip’s thigh to the transformation seam at the back of one knee-joint. “If you don’t--”

His fingers drove into the gap, hard, and Drag Strip’s frame jolted. “I’m thinking you’ll need a few practice sessions with that before you get it. But I don’t mind repeating myself.” His fingers moved to the other knee. Drag Strip tensed, bracing himself, but instead Motormaster only stroked the seam there, fingertips tracing its edges lightly and repeatedly.

The unpredictability of it had left Drag Strip unable to anticipate what was coming next and mentally prepare for it in any way. All his resources were called upon simply to endure what was happening.

“Got it?” Motormaster said, as if he had just explained a new driving maneuver.

“Yes.”

Motormaster dragged his fingers up the back of Drag Strip’s thigh and then took his hand away. Drag Strip stifled a sigh of relief.

At least it’s over, he thought. Motormaster had finished either petting or brutalizing him from nape to knee-joint. And sickening though the experience had been, he had lived through it with nothing worse than damage to his spoiler and a dent on his helm. His circuits were still heated up and humming in a strange way, but that would subside once he was safely back in his own room.

He felt Motormaster release his wrists and then his legs; slowly, he began to relax. He lay still and waited to be dismissed.

“Turn over,” Motormaster said.

_No._

_No. It’s going to start all over again._


	3. Chapter 3

Part of Drag Strip screamed at him to get away somehow. A saner part reminded him of what would happen if he disobeyed Motormaster. He turned over carefully, trying not to rest too much of his weight on his damaged spoiler.

Motormaster was still pressed close to him. Drag Strip’s plating crawled at the feel of the large dark chassis all but welded to the entire length of his own frame, but he focused on keeping still and not trembling. He was fighting himself far more than he was struggling against Motormaster, and he hated that too.

His ventilations came in fast, uneven hitches. He tried to lower his arms, but the hint of movement was enough. Motormaster’s optics narrowed to purple slivers.

“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he said, and reached up. Drag Strip flinched, but Motormaster only drew a fingertip down the inside of his right arm from wrist to shoulder, as lightly as if he was tracing something made of glass. Then he did the same thing to Drag Strip’s left arm, using the flat of his hand and smoothing the yellow metal.

Drag Strip heard himself whimper. After what he had just gone through, the gentler touch felt good and yet it only made him more afraid. He didn’t know what would happen next, only that his punishment was not yet over.

His quiet reaction elicited a low chuckle, and Drag Strip was suddenly furious again. If making a sound satisfied Motormaster, he wasn’t going to do it again. He clamped his jaws shut and wondered if multiplying sixteen-digit numbers together in his mind would help.

“Spread your legs,” Motormaster said. Drag Strip felt as though a coldness had settled over his entire plating, like a mist of liquid hydrogen, and was now sinking through his frame to reach his core. _I don’t want to. Please…_

In a series of little twitches, his legs opened. He offlined his optics, not wanting to see what would happen next. His hands clenched into helpless fists above his helm.

A finger touched the side of his jaw and slid over his cheek to his visor, pushing hard enough to slide it upward. Drag Strip froze. No one had ever done that to him before either.

“Keep your optics online or I’ll remove them,” Motormaster said, and Drag Strip had no choice but to obey. Motormaster smiled slightly, as if to himself.

“You think you’re different from the rest of us?” he said. “You even have optics the same color as ours.”

 _I’ll get those replaced._ Drag Strip didn’t dare to say that, since it was always possible Motormaster would start the process by tearing them out, so he stayed motionless as a large hand stroked his helm, then trailed down over his cheek. His facial plating seemed to be strangely sensitive; it tingled and warmed under Motormaster’s touch.

His cooling fans were still active, but they made no difference. Perhaps it was due to having Motormaster pressed close against him, feeling the continuous rough grind of a much more powerful engine and the scorching air from Motormaster’s vents washing over him. One more small discomfort and indignity. But odd though the nearness and constant touching made him feel, he was starting to grow used to that. He hoped it would be over soon.

Motormaster shifted, leaning close over him. Drag Strip tried to pull back, but the unyielding surface of the berth was beneath him and he couldn’t look away as Motormaster lowered his head.

He started to ask what Motormaster was doing, and the words were muffled as lips pressed down on his.

Drag Strip had only seen kisses exchanged twice before, and one of those times had been between humans, in a film. Both had looked equally useless and weird, so he hadn’t exactly studied them for long and didn’t know what to expect. When he felt a wet glossa push into his mouth, he gagged and tried to turn his head to one side.

Motormaster broke the kiss and landed a hard slap across his cheek. It happened so fast that Drag Strip didn’t have time to recover before a backhand smashed into the other side of his face. Shock and stinging numbness roared through his head. From a distance he heard himself whimper again, but the sound was drowned out by the sudden revving of Motormaster’s engine.

 _He likes this,_ Drag Strip thought through a haze. _He’s enjoying it._

He managed to online his optics, remembering what would happen if he didn’t do that. His face hurt, but he was accustomed to the cycle now – having injured him, Motormaster would play with him again. And he was right. Motormaster bent his head, and Drag Strip hoped he wouldn’t have to feel anything in his mouth again, he couldn’t stand that, but instead Motormaster only pressed his face against Drag Strip’s throat and licked.

Drag Strip fought not to grimace at the feel of fluid on his plating. This would be over soon and he could wipe it off. Wash it off. Scrub it off. _Just stay calm, and this will be over soon._

Motormaster continued to lick at his throat, his glossa drawing patterns on the yellow metal. Then he cycled his intakes and blew softly over the wetness.

Drag Strip gasped. The coldness he had felt earlier was gone, replaced by heat that prickled through his limbs. The new sensation was not exactly comfortable but not unpleasant either, and it made him squirm on the berth.

Motormaster made a low satisfied sound, deep in his throat. Then he lifted his head, watching Drag Strip intently. That helped a little; Drag Strip couldn’t feel much beyond hatred and revulsion and fear with Motormaster’s stare on him, and that was fine with him. He preferred that to the strange, warm feeling that throbbed in his circuitry and kept him off-balance.

 _When is this going to stop? Is there something I need to do to end it?_ All he could do, though, was gather his resources and wait as Motormaster’s hand stroked down over his chestplate, over his engine block and abdominal plating.

“You’re nothing but a few fast wheels,” Motormaster said. Drag Strip was startled enough by that that he almost didn’t register the hand moving over his hip and down his thigh. “You think you’re hot slag, but you couldn’t be more wrong if the Autobots programmed you to be an idiot.”

Motormaster began to fondle the inside of Drag Strip’s leg, palm rubbing in slow firm circles that moved steadily up to the transformation seam where thigh and pelvic unit joined. Drag Strip didn’t know what it would feel like to be touched there, only that his legs trembled under the touch, while the rest of him felt chilled. Arousal and humiliation met like fire and ice.

Motormaster leaned close. This time Drag Strip didn’t pull away, even when lips pressed to his audial. “You’re weak,” Motormaster whispered. “Which means you have that much in common with your teammates… but you’re worthless as well. You think I can’t tell what you’re like under the shine and speed? That’s just a flash in the optics, there and gone. After that, you need substance. Have you got any?”

“I…”

Motormaster began to trace the rim of the gap, carefully edging around the seam without touching the wires within. “Dead End can anchor this team and keep it stable. You can’t. Breakdown can sabotage any engine near him. You can’t. Even Wildrider gets over whatever happens to him in a klik or two. You think you can do that? Walk out of here and be fine?”

He grinned, the stretch of his mouth humorless and sharp as a blade. “You think you don’t need us, but it’s the other way around. We don’t need you. If Vector Sigma had left you a drone what difference would that make to anyone?”

He took his hand away, to Drag Strip’s relief, and put two fingers into his own mouth. They came away wet and glistening, and before Drag Strip could do anything, he slipped them into the open seam.

Drag Strip bit down on his lip so hard that the metal dented. His body jerked violently in response, circuits sparking, but Motormaster never stopped stroking the edges of metal, plucking at hidden wires, rubbing a sensor cluster within the gap. Drag Strip felt sensitized to the point of pain, poised as if on the edge of a precipice, and there was a cry locked in his vocalizer.

It released when Motormaster abruptly moved on top of him, but the sound was stifled against a broad shoulder. The increased pressure on his battered spoiler was unbearable, but Drag Strip barely felt it as he struggled to keep his vents from being blocked by Motormaster’s frame. For a single terrified moment he thought Motormaster was trying to crush him to death.

Then he realized it was just another part of the ordeal. Interfacing was made up of so many different kinds of degradation, and he was learning more and more of them.

Exhausted, he went still except for the rasps of air through his intakes, his frame gradually adjusting to the massive weight on top of him. The vibrations of Motormaster’s engine thudded through him, and if he could have sunk through the berth, he would willingly have done that.

He had never felt so powerless. Or worthless. The thought was an echo of what Motormaster had said. Until then, it hadn’t occurred to Drag Strip that the Stunticons might not need him, that they might do very well without him.

Braced on his elbows, Motormaster stared at him with optics like cold purple wells that went down and down, endlessly. “Any time you get an idea that you’re better than us, you’re going to remember being here and seeing yourself for what you really are. A piece of slag.”

One last burst of defiance flickered in Drag Strip’s core. “Th-then why do you even want me in your team?”

“You’re a Stunticon. That makes you _my_ piece of slag. And you’ll always remember that I’m not just your leader, I had you first as well, because no one else wanted anything to do with you…. and because you’re _that_ stupid about interfacing. I’ll bet you didn’t even know that this feels good.”

His fingers thrust into the tires on Drag Strip’s shoulders, delving deep into the wheel-wells, thumbs caressing the sides of the tires. Drag Strip shuddered in response, but a moment later Motormaster’s engine revved so hard the vibrations slammed through Drag Strip. His were free now and he brought them up, but no matter how hard he pushed, he might have been trying to dislodge a mountain.

He found himself grasping at Motormaster’s shoulders instead, as the rough surges of pressure went on and the exquisite stimulation to his wheel-wells never stopped. Motormaster’s pelvic plating scraped against his hips in a hard rhythm, pushing him against the berth rhythmically, everything inside him was tightening, core temperature out of control, ventilations turned into gasps, and suddenly Motormaster buried his face in Drag Strip’s shoulder and bit down on a sensor node.

Drag Strip cried out in pain and pleasure. His frame wrenched as if pulling itself apart, racked him almost to the point of offlining, then released him. He slumped – and the next spasm hit him, and the next. He thrashed helplessly again and again, then went limp, shivering beneath Motormaster’s weight.

Motormaster collapsed on top of him, but recovered first. He rolled half off Drag Strip, keeping one leg bent and resting across him. Dimly, Drag Strip wondered why he bothered. He couldn’t move, much less fight, and his head lolled to one side.

A finger pressed against his cheek, turning his face towards Motormaster. That time, when his mouth was covered, he submitted to the kiss although a cold despair filled him. _It’s starting again. No, please, I’ll do anything, just… not again._

But Motormaster shifted completely off him, optics dimmed with satisfaction and his engine knocking as it cooled. “Count yourself lucky, Drag Strip,” he said. “That was your first time, so you had it easy. Now get out.”

 _I’m dismissed._ Drag Strip couldn’t even feel relief. He was too drained at that point, empty, shaken down to his struts. He rolled off Motormaster’s berth and ended up in a heap on the floor, his gyros out of alignment. There was a cool trickle of lubricant from the open wound where one end of his spoiler had been ripped off. He knew he needed a few minutes to rest, to recover, but if he didn’t obey right away the interfacing might happen all over again.

And he didn’t want to be anywhere near Motormaster if he could help it. He hated Motormaster even more now than he had done before. That hadn’t changed, and he didn’t think it ever would.

With the last of his strength, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered across the room, remembering at the last moment to retrieve his gun. The effort of bending down for it was too much, though; he nearly crumpled to his hands and knees. Dizzily, his head hanging down, he heard Motormaster get off the berth.

The sound was more than enough to galvanize him into movement again. He subspaced the gun, swung around – barely managing to keep his balance – and palmed the lock just as Motormaster strode across the room. The door slid open and he stepped out, holding on to the wall for support.

The first thing he saw was Thrust, who had been walking past. Thrust stopped in his tracks, staring at him, and Drag Strip looked down at himself involuntarily.

Smears and scrapes of grey marred his finish, while his own paint was scratched in a dozen places, an exposed circuit or two still sparking. He knew his face and helm were dented as well. Thrust grinned and opened his mouth to make some joke.

There was a heavy tread just behind Drag Strip and a shadow fell over him as Motormaster appeared in the doorway. The grin fell off Thrust’s face as if all his cranial receptors had been cut at once. Drag Strip couldn’t see Motormaster’s expression, but whatever he looked like, it made Thrust turn and hurry away.

The rumble of Motormaster’s engine sounded like a low mocking laugh as he pushed Drag Strip forward, into the now-empty corridor, and closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story continues in the sequel, "The Second Time". Watch for it here, and thanks for reading & reviewing!

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note : Originally posted on my LiveJournal as part of the 28s meme (Dominant).


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